


heart like yours is rare to find

by terpsichorean



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichorean/pseuds/terpsichorean
Summary: The year is 1958 and it's been 13 years since Ron last spoke to Carwood. Now stationed in Germany, his life is regimented and orderly, with no room for thoughts about the man he was in love with but never told so many years ago. All of that is thrown out the window one night when he runs into that same man on the streets of Berlin.





	heart like yours is rare to find

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LydiaJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaJ/gifts).



> For LydiaJ! This fic follows the spirit of your prompt for post-war domestic happiness and I really hope you like it. It finally gave me the excuse to write from Speirs' POV, which was so much fun! 
> 
> As is probably obvious when you start reading, I did very very very little research for this thing and I know very little about Berlin in the 1950s. Basically the only research I did was to find out that Speirs was posted as the governor of Spandau prison in the late 50s and Lip worked for a glass company. Everything else is completely made up! 
> 
> Much thanks to austeyre, who helped me thrash out this idea and encouraged me to keep going when i was whining and to potofcoffee who gave me ideas for the little things and commiserated with me. you are both gems 
> 
> The title is the Kaleo song 'Save Yourself'

 

 

 

Winter was just beginning to shift into spring and the snow was melting in dirty drifts on every street corner. Ron brought his car to a halt so the guard on duty could get a look at him. The guard waved him on with a salute; Ron drove on with a nod.

Despite the seasonal shift, the sun was still setting early, disappearing over the horizon as he left work. Spandau Prison seemed to crouch in the darkness like some hulking beast, ominous and dark except for the occasional light shining from a small window. Ron glanced at the building in his rear view mirror as he slowed into a turn and sighed.

The drive back to the house took slightly longer than usual; Ron had left the prison later than his customary time, trying to get ahead on some paperwork and the streets were snarled with traffic. It was a Wednesday night, but that didn’t stop the people of West Berlin. The sidewalks were crowded with young people, a mess of swirling skirts, slick suits, and riotous color. If he’d wanted to roll down his windows, he’d probably be able to hear the pounding of drums and the shouting of guitars spilling out of the dance halls the pedestrians were spilling into.

Ron passed them all by, focused on the road and mildly cursing the people who darted into traffic in a bid to cross the street under his breath. The traffic and the pedestrians faded away the closer he got to his house until he pulled into his driveway. The street lamps shone serenely in the quiet, chilly air, glinting off the ice lingering in patches on the cement.

His house was equally quiet and cold, utterly still. He tossed his keys in their basket and flipped the lights on. Everything looked the same as it always did and Ron felt something deep within him relax.

He started a fire, changed out of his uniform, and started preparing his dinner in silence. Only after he’d put his dinner in the oven to warm did he turn to the record player. He debated briefly in front of his record collection before selecting the Nat King Cole compilation album Ellie had sent him for Christmas. He’d have to send her a letter soon. She was always saying that siblings should keep in better touch.

After dinner, he poured himself a glass of scotch, ignoring the Vat 69 Nix had gifted him with for Christmas after a quick glance. It could remain unopened for another day. Then he sank into his armchair with his old banged up copy of Vergil’s poetry he’d used in school. It was one of the few personal things he’d brought with him when he’d received this posting. He settled in, only getting up to change the record.

When it was late enough, he started getting ready for bed, doing a perimeter check of the house to make sure all the doors and windows were locked. He laid out everything he would need for the next day, brushed his teeth, got in his pyjamas, and slid into his cold bed. He stayed up for another hour to read a few articles in a magazine he’d picked up, but found that they couldn’t hold his attention. No matter; he’d go to sleep a bit earlier than usual so he could get up and go for a longer run in the morning before work.

Decided, he put down the magazine and leaned over to turn the light out. He paused, his hand on the switch, and thought again of empty buildings crouched in the dark, a single lonely light shining into the vast night.

The music must have made him maudlin. He shut off his lamp and went to sleep.

 

\---------

 

The next two days passed as they usually did: slowly, and with far too much paperwork. The only thing to break the monotony was a brief dispute between two of the lieutenants under his command. They’d rubbed each other wrong somehow when they’d first met and Ron had been watching them since, wondering if they would be able to settle it like officers should or if he’d have to step in and settle it for them. Just as in previous instances, a single glare from him made them back down and settle.

Friday evening arrived at last and Ron packed up his desk with a feeling of relief. Two wars under his belt and he was just as happy to see the end of the week as he’d been to receive adequate winter supplies or find something particularly valuable amid the bombed out houses.

The drive home took even longer than usual, what with the crowds that always spilled onto the streets as soon as the weekend arrived. His house was dark as ever when he finally arrived and he sat in the car for a long moment, just looking at it. It was the only dark house on the street, all the others lit up. He could imagine the scenes inside: families around dinner tables, sweethearts cuddled up together, kids playing with the family dog while parents looked on indulgently. The ideal, the thing that everyone was supposed to want.

Ron clenched his jaw, before heading inside just long enough to change and neaten up. His house could stay dark a little longer.

 

\---------

 

The club was just on the edge of West Berlin’s entertainment district. It was a far cry from the establishments he had gone to as a young college student; from the outside, it looked like a sober establishment meant for serious conversation rather than carousing. Most of the foot traffic just passed by without slowing, more interested in heading to the halls playing rock and roll a few blocks over than inspecting the clientele entering and exiting this particular building.

Ron chafed his hands together, cursing himself for leaving his gloves at home. The early spring air was still chilly and Ron wasn’t fool enough to park close to the club. It wouldn’t do for anyone to spot his car anywhere near a place like this; it would lead to far too many prying questions.

He felt his mood lift the closer he got to the club. He could get a few drinks, unwind from the monotony of the week. And maybe he could even find some company for the night.

“Ron?”

He stopped short at the sound of his name, his heart speeding up. It couldn’t be another member of the club; they never used their first names, and most, including Ron, didn’t use their real last names either. Which meant it was almost definitely someone from work. Shit.

He glanced up, looking for whoever had spoken. There was a man standing a few feet ahead of him, wrapped in a dark overcoat. The hat he was wearing cast a shadow over most of his face.

“Yes?” Ron asked cautiously.

The man seemed to stagger slightly. “Ron, its—” he cut himself off with a huff and swept the hat off his head. The light from the streetlamp fell across his face and Ron stopped breathing for a second.

He looked just as he had thirteen years ago in 1945. His hair swept sweetly across his forehead and his eyes were dark, made darker and endless by the lamplight and the night sky. His cheeks flushed a bright red in the cold just as they had back in the winter chill of France and his lips still quirked in the same small smile Ron had gotten so familiar with as the weather had warmed.

“Hi,” Carwood said, a little shyly.

“Carwood,” Ron said dumbly, He knew he was staring, standing frozen in the middle of the sidewalk while people passed around them. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for somewhere to eat,” Carwood said, the sentence lifting at the end so it sounded more like a question.

“No, what are you doing in Berlin?”

Carwood looked a little taken aback. “I’m working here, I took a contract until June. I assume you are to?”

Ron shook himself mentally. God, it sounded like he was interrogating Carwood instead of asking a reasonable question. “Yes, I am.” He paused, feeling thrown off balance in a way that rarely happened. “It’s...good to see you.” He wished he sounded more certain.

Carwood ducked his head, but Ron could see he was smiling. Ron willed himself to stay rooted in spot but couldn’t help swaying forward to try and see it better.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Carwood said softly, glancing up at him quickly before looking away. Ron clenched his jaw, unable to speak.

“Have you eaten yet?” Carwood asked. Ron very carefully didn’t look at the club he’d been about to walk into.

“No.”

“Would you like to? With me, I mean. I haven’t been in Berlin long, but I’m sure we’d be able to find something. We could catch up.” Carwood spoke more and more quietly the longer he talked until he was almost mumbling the last sentence. Ron felt a peculiar ache in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he’d put an old letter away in a box, determined not to look at it again but unable to bring himself to throw it away.

“I know a place.”

 

\--------

 

The restaurant Ron took Carwood to was within walking distance. The place was hushed compared to the din of the crowds roving the sidewalk outside, but it was still fairly full. Ron had been there enough times that the maitre’d recognized him and found him a table quickly.

“Have you been here before?” Carwood asked as they sat down.

“I come here with visiting officers sometimes. They serve a good steak,” Ron said. It was a wonder that such casual words could come out of his mouth right now. Carwood didn’t belong here, casually glancing around the room and listening to the banal details of Ron’s life. Ron shifted awkwardly in his seat and turned to stare at his menu even though he already knew what he would order, angry for feeling awkward.

“Are you stationed at the base here?”

“No, at the prison. Spandau.”

“Oh,” Carwood said. Ron wasn’t surprised that he knew what the place was; he figured that Carwood had watched the trials just as closely as Ron had.

“And I’m guessing you’re not a Captain anymore.”

“Lieutenant Colonel. As of last month,” Ron said. Carwood immediately grinned.

“Congratulations, that’s incredible.” Ron did his best to bite down on a smile, hoping Carwood couldn’t tell how pleased he was. The server showed up, a welcome distraction, offering them a wine list. With a quick glance at Carwood, who was trying not to look bewildered, Ron picked out a good red he liked.

“Not a wine drinker?” He asked as the server left to fetch the bottle.

“Never really got the taste for it,” Carwood said, smiling down at the table.

“You always were a lightweight,” Ron said dryly, then mentally kicked himself. What was he doing, treating this like it was over a decade ago, like they’d just seen each other a couple hours before instead of running into each other on the street through pure happenstance? But Carwood didn’t seem to mind, chuckling as the server returned and poured them a couple glasses.

Carwood lifted his glass. “Here’s to you, and your promotion.” Ron huffed and lifted his glass, gently clinking it against Carwood’s. He managed to stifle his smile long enough to take a drink but he couldn’t help but laugh at the very slight wince of disgust Carwood made when he drank. Carwood put his glass down, smiling wryly with just a hint of a flush growing on his cheeks. Ron stifled the urge to squirm again and was just about to tease Carwood when he took a closer look at his hand.

“You’re not married,” he said, dumbly, then thanked God he didn’t blush easily.

“Oh,” Carwood said, glancing down at his hand as if he’d forgotten his ring wasn’t there, “no, Peggy and I split up a couple years after the war.”

“May I ask why?” Ron prodded.

Carwood ducked his head, looking a little uncomfortable. “We—never really had a chance to live together as a married couple until after the war. And by the time we did, we found we didn’t fit together in the way we thought. We’re happier now.”

“I’m glad,” Ron said, and even managed to sound sincere. He thought again of that old letter, put away so many years ago in order to lay his feelings to rest. And to think that Carwood probably hadn’t even been married by then. That Ron would have known that, so simple a fact yet so important, if he’d only replied.

“What about you?” Carwood asked, and Ron took a quick sip of his wine to clear his throat.

“What about me?”

Carwood huffed, gaze darting away before coming back to Ron’s face. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Ron shook his head, keeping his expression still. “I’m not the easiest man to be in a relationship with.”

Carwood got a mulish look on his face, is if he wanted to protest but wasn’t sure what to say. Ron looked away, taking a long sip of his wine and looking around the restaurant rather than Carwood. It was easier.

The server came back to take their orders. Ron ordered a steak, as he usually did, and was about to order the same for Carwood when he broke in with lightly accented German to place his own order. Carwood grinned at him as the server left. “There wouldn’t be much point in taking a position here if I couldn’t speak the language.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You always did pick things up quickly,” Ron said, feeling a smile spread slowly across his face.

A blush, so recently faded, came back to Carwood’s cheeks. He ducked his head and took a quick sip of his wine, but he couldn’t completely hide the sweet look of pleasure on his face. This time, Ron let himself look for a long moment before turning to his wine.

It was shocking, how quickly everything came bubbling back up to the surface. Ron had a lot of experience in burying these feelings, had been doing so since he’d figured out what they were. He’d put them away a long time ago, placed them in a vault within his mind and forbidden himself from opening it. He couldn’t say he’d never thought of Carwood over the years, but he’d tried to keep it infrequent, casual, the way one would remember an old acquaintance. The years had glossed over the details, blurring one moment into the next. But now Carwood was sharpening them all, bringing color and relief into each moment, just by sitting across from him.

To distract himself, Ron asked about Carwood’s job and was treated to an explanation of the inner workings of an international glass company. The details weren’t important to Ron, but it was a treat to see Carwood enthusiastic, obviously content with his chosen career and excited about the opportunity of his new position.

“I know it’s only for a few months, but I couldn’t pass it up,” Carwood finished saying, eyes darting across Ron’s face.

Ron was distantly aware that he was smiling, probably like a besotted idiot, but couldn’t bring himself to try to stifle it. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

Carwood laughed quietly. “So have you.”

Ron didn’t bother denying it; he’d never seen the point in false modesty. “The military has been good to me.”

“And you’ve been good to it,” Carwood said, ducking his head to avoid Ron’s quizzical look, “Dick and I write to each other. He’s mentioned you a few times.”

Ron nodded, refilling his wine glass. He could feel Carwood staring and he met his eyes as he took a long sip from his glass. Carwood swallowed, fiddling his napkin before spreading it across his lap. Ron looked away, heaving a silent sigh.

He wanted Carwood to ask. He didn’t want Carwood to ask. He didn’t know how he could possibly explain, all those years ago, reading the letters Carwood had sent before putting them aside to go unanswered. It had felt cleaner, less messy, to let the friendship die along with the war. Some days he had even managed to convince himself that he was doing Carwood a favor, allowing him to put the war behind him without any unpleasant reminders in the form of Ron’s words. But Ron had never been that altruistic. He had cut Carwood off to protect himself, even as his tratorious eyes eagerly scanned Dick and Nix’s letters for any mention of Carwood. Crushing his heart and squeezing any fond feelings he’d had for Carwood out of it like water from a dirty rag.

In the end, Carwood didn’t ask. Conversation turned to back to work, then to anecdotes from the last decade. Carwood, unsurprisingly, was still in touch with many of the boys from Easy, and Ron learned more about what they’d all been up to than he’d ever expected to know. Conversation continued as they ate and shared a couple drinks afterward. When Ron checked his watch he was surprised to see how late it was.

“I should probably let you get home. You must be tired,” he said, finishing his drink. Carwood looked startled for a split second before nodding. Ron caught the eye of a passing server and signalled for the cheque, then noticed Carwood was reaching for his wallet.

“I’ve got it.”

“Ron—” Carwood started scoldingly.

“I’ve got it.” Then, even knowing he shouldn’t, knowing the reaction he would get, “let me treat an old friend.”

Sure enough, Carwood ducked his head with a soft, flattered, smile. Heat spread through Ron’s chest and his gut tightened.

They left the restaurant for the cold street. People were still roving here and there, music pulsing up and down the sidewalk. Ron shivered in the cold air and dug for his smokes.

“Cigarette?”

Carwood shook his head, stepping to the side to avoid the pedestrians streaming past. “No, thank you. I quit a couple years ago.”

Ron shook out a smoke. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Carwood said, glancing at the dance hall across the street, “I had a brush with pneumonia again, decided to give my lungs a break.”

Ron paused to look at him with his cigarette between his lips, lighter already in hand. Carwood glanced back at him and laughed. “I don’t mind if you smoke.”

“If you’re sure,” he said, words slightly slurred around the cigarette.

“Yes, go ahead.”

Ron lit up, taking a deep drag and being careful to blow the smoke away from Carwood. A beat of silence fell between them.

“This was nice,” Carwood said, a little awkwardly.

“It was,” Ron said, unsure what else to say.

Carwood sighed quietly before turning to face Ron head-on, looking him right in the eye. Ron felt frozen, like a rabbit before a wolf. “I’d like to do this again sometime,” Carwood said firmly, almost as if he was giving an order rather than making a request to spend some time together.

“Alright,” the word slipped out of Ron’s mouth before he realized what he was saying and he resisted the urge to kick himself. This was dangerous and he knew it. There was a reason he’d let Carwood go all those years ago; it was foolish to invite him back in now.

But the way Carwood smiled as soon as Ron agreed, the eager way he dug for a pen and paper so they could exchange numbers—it pierced Ron straight through the chest, made him ache in ways he wasn’t expecting and could never protect against, no matter how much distance and time there was between them.

Details exchanged, they went their separate ways, Carwood assuring Ron he could make his way home fine. Ron drove back to his quiet house on his quiet street and crawled straight into bed after shedding his clothes. He lay there for a long time, listening to the silence in the house while stray images from the evening sprung back into his mind. Carwood’s shy smile, the way he almost squirmed whenever Ron paid him a compliment, the dry humour in his gaze, the firm way he’d taken control when necessary.

Ron heaved an aggrieved sigh and slid his hand down his stomach to his hardening cock. He was fucked.

 

\---------

 

Morning dawned early for Ron, who was up and about before the sun was fully up. He went for a long run, hoping the physical activity would ease his racing mind.

It was ridiculous to dwell on it. Carwood would either call or he wouldn’t. It was pointless to stay close to phone, waiting for it to ring, hoping it would. It would be better if he didn’t, Ron knew that. Better that last night remain a random meeting, a complete chance encounter not to be repeated. Then Carwood could finish his contract, go back to the States, and Ron could safely put this all behind him, for good this time. Hope was pointless. Hope had never gotten him anything other than disappointment.

Ron pushed himself hard on the end of the circuit back to the house and he was panting by the time he walked through the door. He stopped short. The phone was ringing in the other room.

After a long, breathless moment in which he was frozen to the spot, he rushed into the other room and grabbed the receiver off the hook on the last ring.

“Hello?”

“Ron? Are you alright? You sound winded.” Ron sagged against the wall at the sound of Carwood’s voice, slightly tinny over the line.

“Carwood,” he said, “I’m fine, just got back from a run.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t really think about how early it is. I can call back later.” Carwood sounded sheepish.

“No,” Ron said, too sharply. “Now is good.”

“Well, alright.” There was a long pause, during which Ron struggled for words before giving up and waiting for Carwood to speak. “I-uh, I know you probably have other plans, but I was wondering whether you’d like to meet up this weekend.”

“When?”

“Well, I’m free today, if that works for you.”

Ron closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall. He should tell Carwood no, put him off until he gave up completely. It would be harder to do in person—Carwood had always been an obstinate son of a bitch and Ron was always, always so weak for him—but it would be the wisest decision. Carwood was gone in a couple of months, and after that it wouldn’t matter. Ron could put his foolish heart back to rest and get back to his life.

Ron opened his eyes, stared blankly at the opposite wall. “You should come over. I’ll make you breakfast.”

 

\---------

 

Ron spent the time between when he hung up and Carwood arriving kicking himself and looking at his reflection excessively in the mirror. Carwood pulled up in a blue Ford, parking behind Ron’s car in the driveway. Ron told himself to wait until Carwood was at the door, but couldn’t do it, opening the door and leaning in the doorway as Carwood walked up the drive.

“This is a nice place,” Carwood said, smiling. He looked just as good as he had last night; Ron cursed himself for being all kinds of a fool.

“The army requisitioned it for me,” Ron said noncommittally.

Carwood shot him a wry look. “It can still be nice.”

Ron didn’t say anything, just waved him inside and offered to take his coat.

As Carwood walked into the living room, Ron wondered what this place looked like through his eyes. He’d had a few months to settle into his new position, to add his possessions to the house. But he hadn’t come to Germany with much, too used to packing light after so many years in the army on the move. The walls were mostly bare, the shelves featuring the occasional book or souvenir. It was empty, Ron realized. It had nothing to mark it as his; it could be any house on any block in any city.

“Eggs and bacon good for you?” he asked, turning toward the kitchen so he wouldn’t have to see Carwood’s face.

“Yes. And coffee, please.”

Ron gestured to the counter. “I started a pot.”

Breakfast passed quietly, but sweetly. Ron realized that he and Carwood had never really spent time together like this before, just two men together with no other obligations. Even during the quiet moments of the war, it was still a war; they were never truly at ease, all to aware of the men and their responsibility toward them.

It wasn’t something Ron had ever anticipated wanting, this quiet time with another person. He was surprised by how much he liked it.

“How much have you seen of Berlin?” He asked during a lull in conversation.

“Not much,” Carwood said, sopping up some egg yolk with a piece of toast. “I’ve been so focused on work I haven’t had much of a chance to sight-see.”

Ron took a sip of his coffee so he wouldn’t smile. Carwood really hadn’t changed a bit. “Would you like to change that?”

Carwood looked at him for a second, his eyes widening briefly before he smiled. It was blinding. “I would.”

 

\------------

 

That morning started a routine between them, a routine that Ron would never even have thought to want. They spent that weekend wandering the city, taking in the sights. Ron knew the city fairly well, but he found himself looking at sights anew when he was with Carwood. Europe wasn’t all that different from the States and Ron was used to it by now. But Carwood was so interested in everything, and so willing to try anything, that Ron couldn’t help but find his energy contagious.

As they bid each other farewell on Sunday night, Ron again tried to give himself a stern talking to. Don’t hope, don’t reach out, don’t bother. Just let it die.

But on Monday evening, his phone rang again. And on Tuesday. By Wednesday, Ron was the one placing the call.

They didn’t meet up everyday; sometimes they just talked on the phone, from anywhere from a few minutes to an hour. Other nights, and most every weekend, Carwood would come over to Ron’s place. Sometimes they’d go out and see the city; other times they’d stay in, drinking and listening to music until late. A few weeks in, Ron started insisting that Carwood bring over enough of his things that he could stay the night in the guest room if need be.

It was different from anything Ron had ever known before. Logically, he knew that his free time had shrunk, that his time was split between work and Carwood. But it didn’t feel like he was losing out on anything or missing anything. Not when he came home, knowing that Carwood would be calling or stopping by.

He found himself thinking about it during the work day, sitting at his desk and wondering what Carwood would talk about tonight, what record they would listen to, what they would eat for dinner. Once, he lost himself to idle musings about how he could get that particular smile from Carwood, the one he tried to bite down before it broke through bright as a kid’s.

It wasn’t wise, he knew that. It wasn’t smart to let Carwood get this close, this intimate. Ron would always want more from him. Sometimes, he’d catch himself looking at Carwood from across the table and wonder what he’d do if Ron leaned across and kissed him, or if he pulled him up and led him to the bedroom. What would he look like laid down on Ron’s sheets? What would he sound like if Ron kissed the faded scar on his cheek, his neck, his chest?

Sometimes he even deluded himself into thinking that Carwood was staring back. That was probably the worst part.

It was never anything Ron had expected. Ron had never thought to see Carwood again; refusing to reply to his letters had seemed to ensure that. Running into Carwood at all had been random chance, not something that would happen again. Any connection between them should have died a long time ago, forced into quiet submission through lack of contact and Ron’s adamant suffocation of it. Yet, here they were, more tied together than ever.

 

\----------

 

March turned into April and it had been a month since Carwood came back into Ron’s life. And with April came Easter.

“Do you have any plans for the long weekend?” Carwood asked one night when they went out for dinner.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. I was thinking about getting out of town for the weekend.” Ron paused, sought out Carwood’s eyes. “Was wondering if you’d want to come with me.”

Carwood looked right back. “Where were you thinking of going?”

Ron shrugged, hoping it came off as diffident rather than nervous. “Here and there. I thought it might be good to see the country when we weren’t occupying it.”

Carwood just looked at him for a long moment; then, a slow smile started to spread across his face. He ducked his head with a small laugh and Ron thought he might float out of his seat with the heady joy of it.

“I’d like that,” Carwood said softly, and it was set.

 

\-----------

 

They left early on Saturday morning, piled into Ron’s car. They didn’t have any strict plans about where they were going; they had debated fiercely about destinations until Carwood had rolled up the map spread across Ron’s table and said, “Let’s just go where the road takes us.” Ron had felt his heart thump hard once in his chest and agreed.

They spent most of the weekend taking turns driving around the countryside in the sunshine, Carwood pointing out statues and monuments while Ron made dry remarks in the hopes of making Carwood laugh. It made Ron feel younger than he’d felt since before his first war.

Saturday night they pulled the car off onto a side road somewhere between Cologne and Frankfurt. They sat on the hood together and looked up at the stars, drinking sodas they’d gotten from the last diner they’d passed. Ron didn’t notice he was shivering until Carwood shrugged out his coat and wrapped it around his shoulders before turning back to the stars. Ron turned his face into the collar of the coat, inhaling Carwood’s scent, and reflected that no matter where he ended up or what he ended up doing, he would remember this night for the rest of his life.

They slept in the car that night, Ron sprawled in the front seat and listening to Carwood’s steady breathing from where he was sacked out in the back. He was piercingly reminded of Hagenau, and found himself desperately thankful that Carwood’s breathing was easy and unburdened tonight. It soothed him to sleep, just as it had so many years before.

Of course, he regretted it bitterly in the morning, his stiff muscles reminding him that he wasn’t a young man anymore. Carwood snorted when Ron told him that, watching from the driver's seat while Ron stretched painfully on the shoulder of the road. 

“We’re the same age. Actually, I’m older than you,” Carwood said, tone wry and far too fond for Ron to deal with this early in the morning.

Ron grunted and folded himself back into the car with a barely suppressed wince.

“I need coffee,” he finally managed to mumble. Carwood laughed and started the car.

Sunday passed much the same, with the noted exception of the heated debate they got into over the ideal consistency of egg yolks, provoked by what Ron considered a sub-standard breakfast. Ron won the argument by poking Carwood in the side until he was laughing too hard to retort. Ron tried not to feel smug about it but knew he’d failed when Carwood told him to cut it out.

When the sun began to set, Ron put his foot down about another night in the car and pulled into a hotel in Dresden. Luckily, the place had a double room available. Ron booked it while Carwood tried to pretend he wasn’t overwhelmed by the opulent lobby.

“This is a classy place,” Carwood said, gazing with wide eyes around their hotel room.

Ron looked up from putting the bags down and fought back a smile. “I know for a fact you've seen classier.”

Carwood snorted inelegantly, shooting Ron a dry look. “Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.” His expression shifted to shy. “Thank you, Ron. This entire trip has been more than I ever expected.”

Ron looked away. “You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We should get ready for bed if we want to get on the road early.”

“Right,” Carwood said softly. Ron turned back to his bag, grabbed his pyjamas and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He ignored the sound of Carwood changing in the next room over.

He did his best not to look at Carwood when he came back into the room but it was like he couldn't help himself. If he thought it had been odd to see Carwood in civilians clothes, it was nothing compared to seeing him wrapped in his flannel pyjamas and barefoot. He looked soft and vulnerable, stripped of all defense and artifice. At the same time, the pyjamas were just small enough that they pulled across Carwood's shoulders when he reached for his bag and across his ass when he bent over.

Ron swallowed, his eyes lingering. He finally managed to pull his eyes away and turned to his own bag. When he’d packed away his toiletries and selected his clothes for the next day, going about it extra slowly to take some time to collect himself, he turned back to Carwood, determined to keep his gaze at eye-level. Which meant he got an excellent view of the faint red tinge to Carwood’s cheeks and ears, the ever-so-slightly wider eyes that turned with an all-too familiar determination to the ceiling, eyes which had obviously been looking in Ron’ direction just a split second before.

Ron’s first instinct was to let it lie, just as he had all those other times he thought he caught Carwood looking, lingering and appreciating in places most men would not let their eyes go. Let it go, move on; he and Carwood were friends again after so many years apart, wasn’t that enough?

But the instinct that always ran below the surface, the one that made him push harder and go further, the one the made him jump into battle first and run behind enemy lines alone, that instinct said _press it. push it. take it as far as it will go and don’t back down. and if he’s not receptive? if you are wrong? you’ll be losing him in a couple of months anyway. it’ll just be a bit quicker this way._

“Ron?” Carwood asked, any hints of embarrassed longing lost to his confusion. Ron got the impression it wasn’t the first time he’d called his name but he couldn’t know for certain—he felt like he was surfacing from deep water, blood rushing and light blinding.

He stepped right into Carwood’s space, close enough he could feel the heat of Carwood’s body along his front. They were precisely the same height—he’d forgotten that.

“Ron?” Carwood repeated, quieter, eyes searching Ron’s face. Ron couldn’t say anything, something he didn’t want to label as hope and fear cutting off his voice. Instead, he lifted his hand and pressed it against Carwood’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along the faded scar there. Carwood’s lips parted just a little, a shuddering exhale brushing over them. His eyes dropped to glance at Ron’s lips before shifting back up to meet his gaze.

It was all Ron needed to close the distance, to press their lips together in the way he’d tried to make himself forget he’d ever wanted.

Carwood froze then melted, sinking into Ron. His hands came up to clutch Ron’s shoulders, pulling his pyjama shirt taut across his shoulders. Ron wrapped his other arm around Carwood’s waist to pull him close. He used his other hand to better angle Carwood’s face so he could press closer, delve deeper. Carwood moaned softly against his mouth and Ron shivered.

They broke for breath, both of them panting. Ron tilted Carwood’s head further to the side, started pressing wet kisses to Carwood’s neck. Carwood sighed, one hand drifting up from Ron’s shoulder to weave his fingers through Ron’s hair. Ron brushed another kiss onto his skin, then bit; Carwood grunted and his fingers formed a fist in his hair, pulling gently. Ron’s eyes fluttered shut and he moaned softly against Carwood’s skin.

Carwood leaned into his space, his hot breath brushing against Ron’s ear. “Come to bed,” he said in a rough whisper, “Come to bed with me.” He accompanied the request with another hair pull. Ron shuddered and managed a nod.

They didn’t get much sleep that night and Ron woke up aching again, but in a much more pleasant way than the night before.

 

\----------

 

At some point during that night, Carwood laid beside him, running his hands up Ron’s chest.

“I thought about this for a long time,” he said, before leaning in to press random kisses to Ron’s chest.

“You did?” Ron asked, curling his fingers in Carwood’s hair and letting his head fall back.

“Yes, I did. Well, I did after I figured out I even wanted it.” Carwood pulled away and Ron opened his eyes so he could see the wry look in his eyes, the sweet crook to Carwood’s smile. “Took me a while to get there.”

Ron wasn’t sure if it was the continued stroking of hands on his skin, the remembered feel of Carwood’s lips—pressed against him so short a time ago and sure to be back soon—or his recent orgasm, but he found himself forced into honesty. “I’ve always wanted this. Since the beginning. I’ve always wanted you.”

The smile dropped away from Carwood’s face, his eyes turning vulnerable. He swallowed and choked out Ron’s name.

Ron pushed Carwood down into the bed and kissed him hard, a hand wandering down Carwood’s chest, around his waist, and to his ass. He squeezed, reveling in Carwood’s gasp and watching the way that vulnerability faded back into bliss.

_I’ve wanted you. I want you. I will want you, even after I lose you. I think I might never stop._

Christ, he was so fucked.

 

\-----------

 

Ron woke softly the next morning, slipping gently from sleep to wakefulness. He was lying in Carwood’s arms, Carwood’s body pressed up behind him and his breath warm on the back of his neck. Ron closed his eyes again, let himself feel it, before turning over and kissing Carwood awake. Carwood woke with a smile, every feature limned with hazy delight. Ron tried to keep breathing normally.

“Morning,” Carwood whispered before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Ron’s lips.

“We should probably get going. It’s late,” Ron said, breaking the kiss to speak only to lean back in.

Carwood hummed agreement into the kiss and Ron found himself moving closer, climbing on top of Carwood to press him into the mattress. Ron broke the kiss again to lean back, letting his eyes wander. Carwood’s hair was tousled against the pillows; his broad shoulders and muscled torso and arms distracting, especially when he lifted one arm to rub his eyes.

“Are we going?” Carwood asked, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks.

“In a bit,” Ron said, and leaned back down to kiss a laughing Carwood, grabbing his wrists and pressing them into the mattress.

They eventually managed to get out bed after many a false start and get back onto the road to Berlin. The trip didn’t take long—this country was ridiculously tiny to men used to the sprawling space of America—and it was only early afternoon when Ron pulled up outside Carwood’s building.

“Come inside,” Carwood said, heading around to the trunk to grab his bag. Ron watched him for a moment, revelling in being able to let his eyes linger, before shutting the engine off.

It was the first time that Ron had ever been inside of Carwood’s home. It was nice—a small one bedroom apartment in a three story building. It wasn’t decorated any more extensively that Ron’s place, but it felt different, less empty. Ron studied the books on the shelf and cursed himself for being a sentimental idiot.

Carwood’s arms slipped around his waist from behind and Ron felt a grin press into the back of his neck. Ron had to bite his lip hard not to start smiling himself, mood immediately buoyed.

“Are you tired?” Carwood asked.

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m exhausted. Guess I’m not used to those long road trips anymore.”

The grin Ron had been trying to restrain broke free and he shifted in Carwood’s arms to look at him. He marvelled at how Carwood’s grin softened at the sight. “Well, maybe we should head to bed, then. Wouldn’t want you to be tired.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Carwood tried to say seriously, but any attempt at stoicism was ruined by the laughter in his voice. Ron snorted and let himself be pulled into the apartment, eager to have as much of Carwood as he could while he had the chance.

 

\------------

 

The routine between them shifted, but not as much as Ron expected it would. They still talked to each other on the phone, or Carwood came over to Ron’s place, or they went out on the town. Ron still found himself stealing peeks at Carwood when he wasn’t looking; he’d glance away every time before remembering that it was okay to stare now. Carwood didn’t mind if he looked; Carwood wanted him to look, judging by the faint blush that colored his cheeks any time he caught Ron doing so. Ron could look his fill, and when they were alone in private—

It wouldn’t last and Ron knew it, so he didn’t hesitate. Whenever the door closed with Ron and Carwood on one side and the rest of the world on the other, he found himself pressing Carwood against the nearest surface, hands wandering. It was toss up whether Carwood would pull him close with a stifled groan or laugh and push him gently away. Dinner was always late on the nights Carwood pulled him in. They’d do the dishes together after dinner, listening to songs on the radio or Ron’s records. Once, Ron stopped halfway through, reached over with wet hands to pull Carwood into a soft swaying dance, Carwood fluctuating between stifling laughter when Ron spun him and pressing kisses to Ron’s lips, an emotion Ron couldn’t call love if he wanted to hold onto his sanity shining in Carwood’s eyes.

Weeks passed and time moved inevitably forward. Carwood took Ron out for his birthday, to the same club they had met outside of. Ron couldn’t help but laugh when Carwood explained he’d also been planning to go the club that night, same as Ron.

It was a good night, with good food and drink, made all the better for being able to be honest with his affection for Carwood. They ended up on the dance floor with several other couples when the music turned slow and romantic, Carwood doing his best not to blush and Ron doing his best to resist the urge to take Carwood somewhere private so he could get his hands on him. And all the while, his heart beat inside him, pounding out the rhythm of his love—god, god, he was in love with him, what was he doing—an eternal reminder that time moved in a straight line away from a solid point to the inevitable end. The countdown had started from the moment they met again on a cold night in early spring, in a country they had never thought they’d be in together again, and it was ticking down with every second to the end of Carwood’s contract and his subsequent departure. He would leave Ron’s life just as quickly and easily as he had re-entered it and Ron would be left to try to pick up the pieces and smother his heart again like a guttering flame.

Ron pulled Carwood close, pressing their foreheads together and allowed himself to think, just for this moment, before he locked it away again, _I want this forever_.

 

\----------

 

One night, when they lay in bed together, Carwood in Ron’s arms, Carwood asked him, “Why didn’t you ever respond to my letters?”

Ron stiffened, relaxing only when Carwood ran his fingers over Ron’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“It seemed easier,” Ron said finally, “Cleaner.”

Carwood didn’t say anything in response, just pressed a kiss to the back of Ron’s hand and pulled his arm tighter around him. Ron pressed tighter against Carwood’s back, placed a lingering kiss on the nape of his neck, and swallowed down the knot in his throat.

 

\----------

 

It couldn't last forever. Ron had known that going in.

Carwood came over on an evening much like any other, later than usual. Ron already had dinner ready when he walked in the house.

“Ron?” Carwood called from the front hall.

“In here,” Ron said, pulling some plates down from the cupboard.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Carwood said, pressing an absent kiss to Ron’s cheek while he took a plate. Ron waved his apology away with a mumble, more focused on getting the food to the table and not blushing.

They sat down to eat, Carwood paying far too sincere compliments to the food, which Ron knew was only passably edible. The army had taught him how to shoot a gun and give orders; it had never even attempted to teach him to be a good cook.

“It’s good, really,” Carwood protested, a laugh hidden in his voice. Ron snorted.

“Just shut up and eat.”

Dinner passed like usual, with light conversation and anecdotes about their respective work days. Ron let his gaze linger on Carwood as he spoke, reflecting that he should get some candles, maybe have a special dinner on the weekend. Carwood’s eyes had always been captivating in candlelight.

“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about something. About work,” Carwood said. He looked a little awkward, expression shifting to nervous.

Ron felt his stomach clench, his appetite suddenly gone. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Carwood paused, his eyes flicking down to his plate before coming back to Ron’s face. “My supervisor came to speak to me about my contract today.”

Ron’s stomach clenched tighter, twisting nauseously inside him. This wasn’t right, they were supposed to have another month, he wasn’t ready—

He was never going to be ready, he realized bleakly. All his talk, all his internal preparations for this moment that had lingered like a vindictive ghost over every tender touch. He had convinced himself that he was strong enough for this, that he had the inner fortitude to make it through and continue on as if this was just another relationship with a set expiration date rather than the ending of something he’d yearned for for almost half his life.

“Ron? Are you alright?” Carwood asked. Ron didn’t know what expression he was wearing, but it was definitely not good, judging by how worried Carwood looked. Ron let himself look at Carwood for long moment while he tried to control himself, trying to commit his face to memory.

Carwood was good, in a casual, innate way that so many people tried and failed to achieve. He was sweet, and kind, and funny, and far better than Ron had ever deserved. He was the only man Ron had truly loved, Ron knew that now. And now it was time to let him go.

“I understand,” Ron said, standing from the table.

“You do?” Carwood asked, now confused on top of worried.

“This was fun. But we’ve both known this was coming.”

“What?” If anything, Carwood sounded more confused now. Ron tried to suppress his mounting frustration.

Easier. Cutting this off now was supposed to make this easier. This didn’t feel easy.

“C’mon, Carwood,” Ron said, making himself look at Carwood for as long as he could before he fixed his gaze on the wall. He didn’t last longer than a second. He wasn’t strong enough for longer. “Don’t be a fool. You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t, but I’d appreciate if you told me,” Carwood said, speaking in that tone that Ron remembered dimly from the war, the one he used on soldiers who had been driven to their farthest limit and needed a soft touch to ground them. Anger bubbled up inside him in response, resenting Carwood for thinking that he needed such gentleness.

“I’m talking about this, us, this _thing_ we’ve been doing!” Ron snorted derisively, glancing at Carwood before looking away again. “What, did you think we’d continue on forever? Don’t be naive, Carwood. This was never going to last. It’s time to end it.”

Carwood didn’t say anything for a long moment; the silence seemed deeper in contrast to the volume Ron had been speaking at.

“So,” Carwood said, very quietly, “You’re done with me, this—thing. Just like that.”

Ron crossed his arms, not letting it show how much Carwood’s quietly hurt voice injured him. “Seems like.” Carwood didn’t say anything and Ron cleared his throat. “I think you should go.”

Carwood took a deep, shuddering breath and Ron tried not to wince. “Can you look at me?”

“I'd prefer not to,” Ron bit out, eyes remaining fixed on the wall. Even so, he couldn't miss the hurt that flashed across Carwood's face.

“Alright,” Carwood said, so softly Ron barely heard him. He stood, hesitating by the table in Ron’s peripheral vision for a long moment before heading for the door. It closed gently behind him.

Ron didn’t move for several long minutes, not trusting himself to stay composed if he wavered even slightly. Finally, he let his arms come uncrossed to hang by his sides. He looked at the table, at the remains of dinner on their plates. His gaze roved around the room, noting everything that had changed in just a few short months. New books on the shelves, a kitschy souvenir they’d gotten in Hamburg to commemorate their trip, one of Carwood’s sweaters casually slung over the back of a chair. Carwood had left his mark on this house, just as surely as he’d left one on Ron’s heart. Ron knew he’d never be able to scrub it clean.

He took a deep breath, more like a gasp than a controlled inhale, and moved to pour himself a glass of whiskey. He blinked hard and swallowed, cursing quietly when his hand shook on the bottle.

One night. He’d allow himself one night to mourn this. Then he’d bury it, down deep and out of sight, where it should have stayed.

He nodded to himself, resolute, and took a sip of his whiskey. Only to almost choke when the door slammed open behind him.

He whirled, cursing himself for not having his gun nearby, and froze at the sight of Carwood in the doorway.

Carwood shut the door behind him firmly, glaring straight at Ron. He looked livid, angry in a way that Ron had only seen him be crouching and about to snap behind a haystack outside Foy. It reminded him of how he’d always imagined the archangel Michael looked when he was young, whenever the sermon had dragged on for too long. Full of power and anger, and made all the more beautiful for it.

“You don’t get to do this,” Carwood snapped, eyes flashing as he marched across the room straight into Ron’s space.

“Carwood—”

“No, you already had your turn, now it’s mine. I already let this go once, let you go once, I'm not—” Carwood cut himself off, glaring intently at Ron. Ron couldn’t move, feeling pierced in place, like a butterfly to a board.

“You don’t get to make unilateral decisions for the both of us,” Carwood said finally, tone a little calmer but still sharp. “This _thing_ , as you call it, is a relationship, between two people. Which means that two people are involved in every decision.”

“I know that—”

“You clearly don’t!” Carwood snapped, and Ron fell silent, swallowing heavily.

“What—” Carwood started and stopped, ducking his head. His angry expression cracked in half, spilling sorrow and hurt across his face. Ron bit his lip savagely, hoping the pain would stop him from reacting. “What are you doing, Ron? Why—did I do something? Do you not want—”

Carwood’s voice was trembling, wavering in a way Ron had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. It broke him.

“No, Carwood, you didn’t do anything,” Ron said, immediately ashamed of the pleading he could hear in his voice, “I—thought this would be easier. For both of us.”

Carwood looked up at him, blinking, and Ron clenched his jaw against the wetness in his eyes. “Easier than what? What are you talking about?”

Ron tried to speak but found he couldn’t. He shook his head mutely, glaring futilely at the floor.

Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, slowly, Carwood lifted a hand and cupped it so gently on Ron’s cheek that he thought he might shatter.

“I want to be with you,” Carwood said, voice soft and yearning, “I’m happier sitting quietly next to you than I am anywhere else. Isn’t that enough?”

Ron swallowed heavily, clearing the knot in his throat enough to find his voice. “It can’t last.”

Carwood made a quiet, hurt noise, bringing his other hand up to curl around Ron’s shoulder. “It can. It was.”

Ron shook his head again, a desperation for Carwood to understand rising up in him and making the movement jerky. “You’re leaving,” he finally managed to choke out.

“No, I’m not.” Ron’s head snapped up, staring at Carwood. Whatever was on his face made Carwood smile sadly, just a little. “I’m not leaving.”

“What?”

Carwood tightened his hand on Ron’s shoulder, squeezing, as if the pressure could make Ron absorb his words better. “I took another position at work. That’s what I was trying to tell you. The new position—it’s permanent.”

Ron inhaled raggedly, letting himself sag in Carwood’s grip for the briefest of seconds. He brought his hand up, pressed his open palm against Carwood’s chest, imagined he could feel his heart beating in there, the rhythm of life, the progress of time, and Carwood’s unthinkable devotion to him, all in one.

Ever so slowly, as if afraid Ron would spook like some feral animal, Carwood let his thumb stroke across Ron’s cheek. Ron couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting closed or bring himself to be ashamed about leaning into Carwood’s touch. Gentle pressure on Ron’s shoulder pulled him closer until they were breathing each other’s air, foreheads touching.

“My life is here now,” Carwood said softly, and every word brushed Ron’s lips, “I’d like you to be a part of it.” Carwood paused. Ron could feel him stiffen slightly and brought his other hand up to Carwood’s side.

“If that’s alright?” Carwood finally asked, and Ron opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to see Carwood looking suddenly insecure, vulnerability that Ron could so easily crush shining in his eyes.

Ron couldn’t bear it. He leaned forward and kissed Carwood, soft and sweet as he could, hoping that Carwood could feel every inch of his love in it. But just in case he couldn’t—

“I love you,” Ron whispered against Carwood’s lips. Carwood choked a wet laugh, more a gasp of relief at the sight of water after interminable ages lost in the desert. Then again, because now that he’d said it, now that he’d acknowledged it to the both of them, how could he stop—“I love you. More than I knew I could.”

“I love you, too,” Carwood said, just as quietly, as if those words from his lips were meant only for Ron’s ears, no one else’s. Ron liked the sound of that.

“You deserve better,” Ron said, a confession and a warning in one.

“And you don’t?”

Ron pulled back a little to look at him confused. “There is no one better than you.”

Carwood huffed softly, as if all the air had been pushed out of his chest. “You can’t tell me to leave then say something like that to me.”

Ron pulled him back in, tucking his face into Carwood’s neck as he held him close. “I’ll never tell you to leave. Never again.” A cautious hope accompanied the words, a feeling he’d never dared to let in taking root there.

Their love wasn’t a guarantee, of course. He’d seen enough marriages—and Christ, the fact that the first place his mind went was marriage should probably have been a clue—fall apart to know that. But maybe he could afford to hope. Maybe, as long as Carwood could look him in the eye, say “I love you” with no artifice, could hold him close and touch his body without resentment, they could last. They could endure, even as time moved forward around them. A light a little less lonely in a not-so-empty house, beaming out into the night like a star.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> and then lip calls speirs out on being a dramatic bitch and speirs apologizes and when speirs is posted somewhere else lip gets a transfer there bc what's the point of working for an international glass company if you can't follow your military husband around wherever he goes? 
> 
> also apparently swans and ronald speirs mate for life, who knew


End file.
